


Old Habits

by non_sequential



Category: White Collar
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-01
Updated: 2011-02-01
Packaged: 2017-10-15 07:11:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/158350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/non_sequential/pseuds/non_sequential
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Over four years in prison you develop habits. Some of them are hard to break.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Old Habits

Over four years in prison you develop… habits. Neal had never been self-conscious about sex, but constant awareness of a hundred other guys in his immediate vicinity had led to him being determinedly quiet when he wanked. Not that he’d done it often in prison, anyway. Not everyone was as private or as considerate as him, and the sound of wet slaps and grunts and cries for Mother was a major turnoff.

Sometimes, though, when he was feeling lonely and a bit lost among the orange jumpsuits and navy shirts and hard eyes, he would curl up under his blanket after Lights Out and think about Kate and how she’d looked after they’d pulled off a really smooth grift. Or how she’d laughed at him when he’d got dunked by that wave on the beach at Nice, and he’d jack himself off to a quietly gasped orgasm thinking about warm sun and warm smiles.

It turned out to be a hard habit to break. He now lived in a nice apartment in Manhattan, with French doors that were double glazed and pretty well sound proofed, and a double bed with more pillows than he could remember what to do with and a duck down comforter. June was his nearest neighbour, and her room was two floors down from him, but none of it made a difference to his subconscious. On the odd occasion he wanked, he still came gasping quietly under the covers.

He had been working his parole with Peter and trying to solve Kate’s bottle riddle for two months, and he was no closer to her than he’d been when he was still in Super Max. Maybe further since at least then, once a week, she was only one thickness of glass away. He was beginning to think that maybe she really didn’t want to be found. But then why would she leave him clues? In the end he had given up for the night, sent Moz back to the Moz Cave and finished off the bottle of wine he’d opened with dinner the night before.

He lay in bed, hand curled around his cock, thumb occasionally running around the tip or dipping into the slit. He was hard and frustrated, a little bit drunk and kind of sick of thinking about Kate, and he was getting _nowhere_. Not with finding Kate, not even with getting off, dammit. He shifted in the bed, moving his legs, trying to find a more conducive position when the tracking anklet caught in the sheets. It tugged and pressed against his ankle and, in an instant, images tumbled through his mind. Peter demanding to see it the second he walked out of prison. Peter looking at him sternly the first time it had been taken off. Peter telling him that he _owned_ him, and suddenly he was coming in his hand, back arched, shouting his orgasm to the ceiling for the first time in over four years.

When he finally got his breath back he cleaned up with tissues from the nightstand and threw the covers back. He stared at the grey plastic device around his ankle. Its green light blinked soothingly back at him. Well, hell.


End file.
